Smoldering Canvas
by Darth Mudkip
Summary: Mariku. Strong, powerful, a being of darkness who thought himself a God! Yet… What was a god to an artist? One who could see past the silver tongue and strong body? He was nothing more than a canvas to use. A half-filled sheet on the brink of perfection. All Mariku needed was Ryou. The artist. Yami Marik x Ryou. Slight gore.


29. Burn

Part of the Guro Theme Challenge

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The slim slender fingers allowed little movement to break the pattern it set. One puff at a time the teen, innocent in his looks, poisoned his lungs with the fag. Each puff of smoke a small freedom he allowed as his hand drifted back to the body below. Ashes fell from the red tip, leaving a trail on the tan skin. He played too hard with the pretend God. The tresses of the golden locks were scattered. Mariku had angered him again. The way he declared himself above man, a being of darkness, a God! He was no God. And Ryou would prove it to him, as he had every night for the last six months.

Time went by rather quickly when one was having fun, and was he _ever_ having fun. The screams of anguish and dismay; breaking a being so powerful in a matter so simple, ignoring his words. What use was a God of quick wits and a silver tongue if there was no one to listen to him?

Ryou shifted his nude form from his resting place, and crawled on top of the bound being of beauty. If Mariku was a sane being he would never have to have suffered, and if Ryou were sane as well, he would never be able to play with his toys. The world was and is a pitter patter of insanity; it was up to the being in question, how much of themselves they gave up to it. How much of the anger they allowed to rule them or how they allowed the brink and shimmer of knowledge that insanity held to infect them.

With the cigarette still in hand Ryou moved his hand upward and over the warm body. It drifted over the skin, more trails of ashes blotched up along the way to its goal. The pale hand hovered over a small burn, the indented skin twisted and marred but still fresh, less than a day old. He flicked the ashes and the hand lowered, his nails grazing over the wonder and beauty of the soon to be scar.

The human body was a perfect canvas for an artist. It changes and grows as an artist grows, the body perfecting the marks and nips on the flesh. Rush, and the work would parish, but take too much time and it would heal before completion.

Ryou knew this. He planned, worked, and craved to be finished, but never did he rush the work on the body. The back already a perfect specimen of living art, but the chest, though chiseled and lean with muscle, was bland and unordinary. It was infuriating how the skin would heal with each blessed mark of beauty. The body took time to heal, but this was a rapid canvas.

A small sigh left the thin rugged lips and his own calloused hand dug in, picking and clawing at the scab that dared try to fix his creation. The body below him was still blissfully unaware and in an unconscious state of mind. He would awake soon. He always did. He trained himself for offense over defense, and he was suffering for his choice.

He could hear a groan from the other as he tossed the scab into the trash bin beside the bed. He shifted upward again, the rough dented edges of his hand patting the tan cheeks gently. "It's time to wake up now. We have another part to work on." Soft and smooth was his voice. The tone containing the care a mother would have over a new born child, but the face betrayed that. Betrayed what he wanted. "Wake up, Mariku…"

There were a few signs that he was waking from the brink of dreaming, but it was too slow. There was time for rest when Ryou was done playing. He smiled bringing his hand back and inhaling more toxic fumes. He did not release the air, instead his other hand moved from his cheek and to Marik's lips, massaging them open as his face drifted closer.

Ryou's own lips moved to own his and the fumes were given from him to Mariku. The chalky air migrating into the new body, dancing around the gashes and dents within; tainting and clogging the airway. The shiver of delight tingled its way across his skin, seeing the eyes jerk and open alert and ready to fight against him and the poison… Though there were no eyes left. Only blank empty sockets filled with a glass imitation.

"You should learn to wake up on time, Mariku. I hate tainting my work before I can even start."

It was nice to have quiet. The peace a cruel reminder that it would never be loud again as the foul scent of decay was stirred through the room. In a small white box not too far from the teen and his toy, a swarm of flies owned and drifted over it. The vocal cords removed and adored for only a moment when Ryou casted them aside. He needed peace to work and he would have it.

"Open your mouth." He commanded but his hands already forcing him to obey, the gums ragged and rugged as Ryou's brunt lips and hands. His blood and skin tainted fingers grabbed and pulled the elongated tongue, digging and owning it as well.

An artist hands were his tool to work. His hands felt and brushed against every need and every desire that the canvas needed. Ryou had long since perfected his body, matching each and every burn that he gave his new canvas. He was the draft, but Mariku. Mariku was the perfection, the end of the need.

Another drag, the fumes blown onto the angry face as his tongue was pulled forward. "You will be perfect soon. Tonight's pain is almost over as I promised, and then you can go back to your shadowy dreams of nothing. For demons do not dream of hope, when they know all is lost."

A glare was all he received in response. Not that he expected much, it was hard for a toy with broken arms and legs to fight the hold of the God with the magnifying glass.

Mariku was an ant. He was to be burned. And he was to be created in his God's image. Ryou's skin was perfected, etched and covered in scars from blades, spoons, cats, and his favorite cigarettes.

Mariku was almost perfect. He would be prefect soon.

Slowly, another drag and a twist, flicking the ashes on his face, Ryou brought it down onto the slimy flesh of his tongue. Mariku's unmarred ugly tongue. It was disgusting and clean, though it wouldn't be for long as he held it in place and burned the taste buds, laughing silently to himself.

It would be over.

He promised.

A part of Mariku would die that night.

Just as he had every other night, for the last six months.

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One down thirty two to go~

Feedback would be nice~


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